How Lovely You Are
by queenly
Summary: Of what good is a battle sans the opponent worthy of mental toil? Malik does not know.


Malik dreads the nights he's left alone.

Lights are out; euphoria, over. And in the scathing darkness, the shadows scream, prowling cats with hisses of venom. The claws- though metaphorical, though apparitional -they _sting_ , incomparably so. They slide against his skin in streams, fingering through the grooves and divots of his spine and shoulders; the etchings that remind him _every moment_ of his sickening past.

"Just _stop_ ," he demands in grumbles time and time and time and _endless ever-expanding time again, and the ticking of seconds that he despises so much-_

And the grating scrapes do cease. But it's not the touches that vex him most; it's the _sounds_ , those eery eeks and creaks and ugly harrowing cackles. He hates them. He hates _it_.

Past his eardrums billows wisps of whispers that are just so damn taunting- "What will you do if I don't?"

There's no sane panacea; the darkness is aware of it, and uses it to full avantage. Wrings it dry. Over and over and over and- It's getting old by now, is it not?

Perhaps not, for Malik cannot help feeling helpless. Entirely incapacitated in terms of power over this being. Unless- unless he-

Cool metallic meets his palm. It's this item that's the source of all his trepidation. But really- is it _really_? Can he for certain blame all woes on an artifact? For certain, he cannot. For certain, he wants to, particularly so once its tip departs to reveal a dagger's cynical gleam. Even more so, he desires to partake in the singular act in which to free himself from these agonizing chains around his mind. Yet, the potential to leave behind in existence his only guardians, the ones he trusts so delicately and so beautifully; it's inane. But the howling mocks of darkness make self destruction seem that much sweeter. Like death were beckoning him, calling him forward unto its tantalizing touch.

The Rod's cover shoves back to its place, where no longer harm will seem so tempting. He cannot even trust himself, he decides, and tucks it away. Away- where he knows it won't be safe should the demon replace his presence. Is it trust-? _No_. But-

The spirit hollers in echoey chortles that supply chills and lividity in tandem.

"Wonderful."

There's a smile in the distant voice, though not that of saccharinity- it's incapable. Malik is convinced that the presence of emotion is not plausible. Emotion is what manifested _him_ in the first place. Nasty, wicked, gruesome emotion that belongs nowhere within sound soul. And to think he himself felt all that and more, at such a tender age-

Malik realizes, in several long blinks, that it is immoral to place blame upon an ancient artifact, an inanimate object. Properly, fault bestows to his own _mind_ ; the disgusting realms that need not justification. He created this demon. He created this- this _thing_! This thing, that he cannot shake off. No matter his pleas, no matter his cries.

But he's long since halted such distasteful behavior. Unbecoming is the imploring of solitude, as are the wracking sobs he used to distribute. It did not take long for Malik to understand these played for fuel; the creature thrives upon his misery. The creature, the shadowy haunting darkness, the second fraction of himself- it's sinister. He- it...he loves the way his vessel pains.

"You don't-!" _Don't what? Have control, have power? What?_

And _he_ seems to think just akin; he growls, utterly pleased. "But I _do_ , don't you see?"

"You're not-!" _Real? Alive?_

"Ah, but I am."

The apparition ravels and twists, pulsating to his skull, alerting Malik to how real he truly is.

Malik finds himself caving to anxiety, and he shouts- a chilling plea. " _Stop!_ "

His hands press, quaking, to the throb in his head. This presence is clawing for release; not the same clawing portrayed prior, however. No longer is it teasing grazes to jog recollection of Malik's own revolt. It's a demanding, _powerful, hammering need for escape._ Power- he's got it. Though, not entirely. Still onto a sliver, Malik dearly grapples. He refuses to relinquish himself to him- to _it._ It's not a being all its own. The darkness requires a vessel, relies upon a living body for its own existence.

 _Fight it, fight it! Commit a mutiny over yourself!_

He's straining, straining against this thing. But the trouble- the reciprocation lacks none in strength.

"You're _weak_ ," it jeers. And it...he... _he_ pummels further. "You're _nothing_."

A bizarre being- cackling and hooting as he battles against Malik's resistance. What is he? _What is he?_

"My power is boundless," he reminds. "You're weak. You're nothing compared to me!"

" _You_ ," Eyes clench shut, head twisting in heaving vigor. " _You're_ nothing _without_ me..!"

And again, again again! The spirit _shrieks with laughter._ "You're the lesser version of myself. I don't need you _. I'm alive!"_

Nails grit into delicate scalp, grinding fistfuls of hair in frenzied shockwaves. The pressure within Malik threatens too closely to erupt. He's fogged and dizzied, and _feels his soul dissociating_. Where to? Where to-

Foreign cackles, deep hollow cackles- they plague him, haunt him. And there's a tweak, a snap that seems so distant yet incapable of being any nearer. A sudden windstorm that Malik has not the gall to guide. But...then again- But, really, after all, again- Who is Malik?

The one who dreads nights alone, because never is he truly sole. The one who loathes darkness, because for lengths of time, it is all that surrounds him.


End file.
